Meanwhile, Back on the Farm
by smolder
Summary: Drabbles relating backstory and bits of point of view for Leena - a rather mysterious, intriguing, and underused character.
1. Safe as Houses

Title: Safe as Houses

Disclaimer: Warehouse 13 belongs to Jack Kenny and David Simkins.  
>AN: These drabbles aren't connected and won't be in chronological order.  
>AN 2: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

People like Leena were rare – empaths would be the common name but that term didn't seem to cover enough ground for his liking. (She was more..)

No one knew how people acquired gifts. The Warehouse was always on the lookout for those that had even a tinge and could be trained. But with Leena's family at least it appeared to be genetic.

You would enter the B&B down in Georgia and be approached by any one of them - greeted by a warm smile and kind eyes and something in you would immediately relax. Your things were taken to a room that was somehow just to your liking and a few moments later there would be a knock on the door and a giggling child with the same curly hair as everyone else would hand you milk and a plate of cookies that tasted like memories.

Warmth, comfort, family, safety, home – even if you found it nowhere else, you would feel it in these walls. From these people.

Leena's family weren't recruited as agents – none of them ever had been, but they had known about the Warehouse since it was in the US. Had been a valuable resource for the Warehouse, a place for them to relax and de-compress. The B&B was credited as the only reason that all agents (and Regents) didn't go crazy.

Naturally, it couldn't last forever.

It was negligence not anger or vengeance – just simple negligence which almost feels worse when he thinks about it. If they had just been more careful…. but they weren't. The agents had been stupid, so stupid…

They had known the woman was close to a breakdown but they thought maybe just some time away from it all where she could breathe a little and work on her hobby.

Painting. Gods, painting. How could they be so stupid not to check her? How couldn't anyone notice that her brushes looked oddly old fashioned.

Jules Bastien-lepage. French artist in the mid-1800s know for his….fuck, for his _realism_.

The woman had been set up with her easel in the living room concentrating hard as she painted. Her eyes had gone glassy and she started to breathe laboriously.

Leena's mother had been passing through and noticed – noticed the pull of the agent's life force from her center, down her arm, and onto the canvas. She called to her, snapped her fingers in front of her face. Then she tried to pull her arm away.

That's when the screaming started.

The screaming…he still remembers hearing the screaming through Ms. Fredrick's Farnsworth. It was almost too much, not too loud – just somehow _too much_, to hear them screaming. (They were joy, they were life, they were comfort, they shouldn't be…..).

But Leena and Jonathon were scrunched together in front of the little black and white screen. Siblings and so similar in their expressions of bravery. The way every time a familiar voice would get louder (or stop) they clenched their jaws and breathed slowly through their noses – keeping their eyes steady and refusing to look, refusing to be distracted from Ms. Fredricks instructions of how they could possibly stop this.

They found the spare pair of purple gloves in the agent's luggage and each took one. With one last deep breath and one last shared sad smile they got to work.

Determinedly not listening or looking at the people (their _family_)and ignoring the pull they were feeling from even being in the room, they grabbed the painting with their gloved hands (separating the connection without touching the paintbrush itself). They hurriedly took it over to the wall where another painting already hung.

Leena shoved the old painting until it clattered to the floor and they placed the new one on the wall. It tilted to the left threatening to fall as well and Jonathon reached out to brace automatically – reached out and touched the painting with his other hand.

His bare hand.

He didn't scream – he gave a surprised choking sound as he dropped to the floor. Leena stared, she stared for a long suspended moment before taking a deep controlled breath crouching down while bracing the painting one-handed…..and carefully removing the glove from her brother's hand and putting it on her own.

She stood slowly and with both hands firmly straightened and pressed the painting to the wall so that it no longer was pulling from any people, it was now connected to the house itself. There was an odd fusing noise as it stuck in place and then there was silence.

Abrupt absolute silence.

She didn't want to turn around, didn't want to look because part of her already knew. Could already feel the lack of life in her family's bodies surrounding her (or more correctly, she supposed re-directed life).

Those bodies were empty but – oh, oh this painting was full of life. Such a realistic image of their living room, you could even see the way the light slanted through the window. The way that wall had a few lumps in the paint. All that was missing were the corpses on the floor. All that was missing were the eight bodies that had fueled it.

She gave a choked laugh and closed her eyes not wanting to look anymore. She turned around and let her back slide down the wall until she hit the floor and still she kept her eyes closed.

When her hand hit a warm familiar body beside her she closed them tighter – closed them tighter and carded her fingers through her brother's familiar curly hair for the last time.

Her eyes were still closed and she was still in the same place when he arrived with Ms. Frederick's more than an hour later.

And they had thought she was dead too, she never opened her eyes until he reached over to check her pulse.

"It hurts," she said, her gaze piercing him.

"I – If you're hurt we can get you to a doctor or," he had stumbled.

"We can feel others but we were always connected to each other," she continued as if he hadn't said anything. "And I can still feel them. It's muted and it's not from their -," her voice waivered and her still gloved hand in her brother's hair tensed but she kept eye contact, "their bodies. It's from that," she pointed up with her other hand. "But it's all pain. They were in so much pain when they died, Artie," she told him and he couldn't help the slight twitch of surprise. He hadn't been aware that she actually knew his name.

"You're connected to the painting as well?" Ms. Frederick's voice asked behind him and he jumped again at her sudden appearance.

Leena's gaze traveled slowly from him up to his boss and then she nodded in answer. "I could feel the pull as soon as we entered the room."

"I see," Ms. Fredrick said.

"You see?" he demanded. "You see what? What do you see?"

Ms. Frederick raised an eyebrow at his tone, tilting her head toward the dazed young woman for a moment and feeling slightly ashamed but not willing to entirely back down he nodded, clamored awkwardly to his feet and followed the other woman a bit out of earshot.

"Jules Bastien-lepage's paintbrush is the original artifact to cause all of the trouble here, but in doing so it appears another artifact was created," she said calmly, keeping her eyes on Leena the entire time. The woman had closed her eyes again as soon as they left her direct line of sight.

"Where?" he asked right away, looking around the room.

Ms. Frederick's eyes never left Leena and with a sinking feeling he turned to gaze at her as well.

"How?" he simply whispered.

"I am not entirely sure," Ms. Fredrick admitted. "But we never have been with artifacts. What we do know is that everyone in this house was killed by that paintbrush. Their life forces were pulled into that painting and now that painting is connected to the house."

"Everyone but Leena," he noted.

"Yes," she agreed. "But Leena started to feel the pull of the painting as soon as she entered the room. She was connected to seven of the eight that were killed. She is now linked to the painting-"

"-and therefore the house," he finished. "How will that work? Will she be able to live a normal life or will it be proximity based, will she be trapped here? Will she even age now? – "

"We don't know, Arthur," Ms. Fredrick's snapped harshly, turning to look at him again before lowering her voice abruptly. "We don't know," she repeated, more calmly, "but we do owe her. This was our fault, our mistake. And the Warehouse – the Regents will do whatever they have to – to make this right," she whispered fiercely. "Now. You will stay with Leena. I have some calls to make." She turned on her heel to leave.

Something hit Artie abruptly making him feel even more blundering and emotionally awkward. "They were your friends weren't they?" he asked.

Ms. Fredrick's stopped in the doorway, her back rigid and her head bowed. There was a body right near her feet. He saw her hands clench. "Watch the girl," she said again and left the room.


	2. One Way Street

Title: One Way Street  
>Disclaimer: Warehouse 13 belongs to Jack Kenny and David Simkins.<br>A/N: These drabbles won't always be in chronological order.  
>AN 2: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

She wanted to slam open the door as she came in, stomp, around, and fling her back pack to the ground. But Leena knew she wasn't allowed to do any of that. This might be her home but it was also a place of business and that was something that had been drilled into her since she was old enough to remember. Before she was even old enough to understand the constant feeling of wanting to help the people who came into the B&B, of _needing_ to fix them. To do anything possible to make them happy again.

So, it didn't matter that Aaron had completely blown off that agreement to meet her at the library and work on their history project together although she knew how important it was to Leena. How she needed to do a good job on this to keep her grade average up. How- how much she had just been looking forward to just _spending time_ with her, just talking and goofing around.

And _Aaron_ acted like it meant nothing. Like it was just some _little_ thing she forgot.

But none of that meant she could yell, scream, stomp, slam doors, and throw things like she wanted to. She wanted to do _anything_ really to get her frustration out. But that's not how her family was.

Instead she closed the door calmly behind her, and walked quietly into the kitchen where her Mom was preparing dinner.

"Leena!" her Mom's head turned a soon as she entered but she never stopped chopping vegetables. "What's wrong? You're blazing honey."

Leena sighed, rolled her eyes, and dropped her back pack in the corner – the only real outside signs of rebellion she allowed herself. It didn't matter what she did anyway, any _outward_ signs were really superfluous for them, and it's not like she could hide what she was feeling from her family even if she wanted to.

"I'll deal with this," her grandmother who had been sitting at the counter said pushing her stool out, with that horrible noise it always made as it screeched across the floor. "You mind the soup."

"Mother," her own mom narrowed her eyes warningly.

"Mind the soup," she repeated. And Leena allowed her Grandma to grab her arm and lead her into the living room area, there were no guest occupying it at the moment.

Her grandmother took her time to settle herself on the couch and by now any of Leena's initial anger she still had when she got home had already moved into melancholy.

"Leena, baby," Grandma started abruptly and Leena jumped a bit, she had been so wrapped up in, what now seemed to be, her own silly teenage angst. "There is one thing ya gotta understand. One thing I want ya ta learn from me even if ya learn nothin' else ya gotta learn this, hear?" she paused, squinting at her for a moment to make sure she was really paying attention. "_No one _is ever gonna understand ya," she said bluntly.

"Mother!" her own mom said in a scandalized tone, having come to stand in the doorway. "Don't tell her that," she scolded, "she's upset enough as it is. You know that, you know how hard it was for us, especially at school with-"

"Hush, Sherry," her Grandma snapped back. "That's why I know wha' I'm sayin'. Just mind the soup."

"I'm Shannon," she mumbled but left again to do as she was told.

"As I was sayin'," Grandma continued with a belabored sigh, "no one is ever gonna understand ya'. Ever. So it's just best to get that nonsense out of your head right now."

"But-" she started. She had friends, good friends, sure they didn't always get along but she knew that they...

"No buts about it Leena, baby," she smiled gently. "Were different. Ya know that. Ya know that you feel that pull towards people. That ya can feel them – what they are, what their feelin, what they need."

She nodded blankly.

"What ya got to remember," her Grandma continued, "is that that ain't a two way street. Not everyone is like us, honey. They're not feelin' ya – all they're gettin' from ya is what their eyes and ears are tellin' them. _Nothin' else._You can't fault 'em for that."

"I-I know," Leena said quietly looking down at her hands.

Her grandmother placed her wrinkled hands on top of hers. "But it's hard to remember all that time, hard to remember that they're not really seein' you like you're seein' them. Ain't it, baby?"

"Yeah," she whispered leaning against the shoulder that smelt like cinnamon and flipping her hand over and intertwining their fingers, instantly feeling the steady connection of warmth and comfort that always flowed through all of her family, "it is."


	3. Anchor

Title: Anchor  
>Disclaimer: Warehouse 13 belongs to Jack Kenny and David Simkins.<br>A/N: These drabbles won't always be in chronological order.  
>AN 2: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

After the bodies are taken away (_And Leena still can't look. Won't look. Doesn't open her eyes the entire time she can hear people moving around - taking away her family's empty corpses. Her hand curls tight and harsh in Jon's hair only for a moment when they gently try to take him too, before she just let's go. What else can she do now but let go?_) they simply move the entire B&B.

With her in it.

A giant life sized Barbie-doll, play-set included. She snorts with laughter and can feel Artie's worry. Worry that she will go insane - that if she isn't already that the link, the constant flow she can still feel from this house, of her family just as they died, will drive her there.

She can't say that he's wrong.

But it's comforting none the less to have somebody here. Not to be left alone as they transport her. Even if she can't really deal with him right now (can't deal with anything), part of her mind is still registering his presence.

The clear shining guilt and worry awkwardly humming close to the surface. The sharp tangled ball of betrayal, sadness, anger, and disappointment stabbing at him down deeper from something that must have happened fairly recently.

It's all anchoring her – this other life near her, this other presence within the B&B - keeping her mind from simply following down the link after her loved ones.

Down the rabbit hole. She snorts but feels Artie's spike of concern holding her steady.

She really can't tell how much time passes (eyes closed, mind so actively trying not to think, that it is hard to judge such things) before they stop but when they do she can hear him getting awkwardly to his feet and her eyes fly open. Panic shoots through her and she tries to scramble to her feet as well , tripping awkwardly and falling heavily on her knee before getting back up quickly.

He is nearly to the door but her voice, and probably the commotion she is making, stills him instantly. "I need you to stay," she says and her voice is rough and barely a whisper but feels very loud to her. Why is everything so quiet?

She'd rather have the screaming then this quiet. The sound of their voices abruptly cutting of was somehow much much worse than their piercing yells of pain as their life forces were being drained.

...maybe because it meant as long as they were yelling they still _had _a life force. Still had life at all in their bodies.

It takes a moment for her to refocus and realize that Artie is staring at her in confusion. "Do you need me to get you something, Leena?" he says slowly in a way that she realizes instantly he has probably repeated himself more than one time.

"No," she shakes her head roughly before stopping abruptly thinking she is doing it too hard. She must have been because it made her neck hurt. God, she was acting crazy, she knew she was, but she couldn't seem to help it. And damn it was hard to really care.

They were all dead.

Dead.

"Leena?" he asks again, touching her arm. And he was right in front of her. When did he move?

Leena jerked back instinctively and her head ran into something. When her mind registered what it was she drew in her breath sharply and shoved herself forward hard…back into Artie.

The painting.

She didn't want to touch it, didn't know when she could _ever_ look at it again.

A hand touched her head. More awkwardly patting than actually stroking her hair. But the actions he couldn't express didn't matter, the fact that he couldn't find the words didn't matter – she feel what he meant anyway.

How simply _bad_ he felt for her.

That futile feeling of helplessness – not knowing what to do to not make it worse. How much he wanted it to be better. Wished it was better. But it _wasn't _and he wouldn't tell her everything would be all right.

Because it wasn't.

Latching on to this, to him, she pushed away just enough to look him in the eye and say, "Please. You can't go. I need you to stay. If you go, I might go too."

"What?" his face showed his confusion, but she didn't need that clue.

"Your helping, Artie," Leena tried to smile but it felt broken on her face. "I'm sorry but I need this," she gestured at him, so close to her that she ended up just poking him.

But he still didn't understand. "Need what?" he asked.

"Your emotions," she said simply. "It's pulling me one way and you keep me here. Present. Making sure I don't follow them."

Artie looked at the painting and back at her and Leena felt her panic mounting. "Please," she whispered gripping his coat only now realizing she was still wearing one purple glove. She strove to keep her breathing even.

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Of course," Artie said smiling a bit too widely. And his own panic and worry were easy for her to see, glowing even more brightly. He grabbed her hands and removed them from their hold on his coat. "Let's get to a different room though. Huh?"


End file.
